A well-worn game trail,
Long used by deer and rabbits,
Has been rudely blocked

By an old cedar.
Time and disease wasted it
And its roots gave way.

See, here, what is left
Of its long, feathered branches:
Spikes, long as my hand!

The deer do not mind,
For their legs are long enough
To step over it.

But the poor rabbits—
See by their tracks, here, and here—
Must all turn aside.

For it is too tall
To safely leap over it.
Look: one of them tried.

His blood stains this branch,
Dry, but still brilliant crimson,
In a wreath of fur.

What was chasing him?
He thought, on the open trail,
He could outrun it.

Perhaps he could have,
Were it not for this blockade.
What a wicked end!

And just to this side
The trunk is bare of branches.
He could have made it.

He missed by inches
And paid for it with his life.
Look before you leap.